by Dakota Chase
“Nobody’s blaming you, but it’s not too late. It can’t be. We have to do something. If we don’t, if the worst happens…. Well, nothing will ever change. Who will be next, Wilhelm? You?” I glanced at the boys but didn’t say their names. From the fear glinting in Wilhelm’s eyes, I knew he understood what I hadn’t said. The boys might be the next ones accused. “I think Meier wants this land back. You’re one of the few farmers around here who holds the deed to the land. Everyone else rents from Meier. He may see accusing your family of witchcraft as an easy way to get the land.”
Wilhelm didn’t seem surprised at my assessment. “I have thought of this also. But what is there for us to do? The baron has the law on his side, and the Church.”
“Well, maybe we have to go outside the law, then. What they’re doing is awful and evil. Listen, Wilhelm, is there anyone who might be willing to help us? Anyone with a grudge against Meier or von Schönenberg?”
Wilhelm looked hesitant to name names, but Christoff did it for him. “There’s Herr Werner. They took his wife for witchery. And the Becks. They lost three girls just last month.”
With a slow nod, Wilhelm waved the boys off. “Go, take the horse. Brush him down and see him fed and watered, then finish your chores.” He turned to me. “Come inside. We’ll talk further.”
Christoff protested with all the fervor of a ten-year-old. “But father—”
“Go!”
His father’s curt reply was all that was needed to spur Christoff to follow Emrich, who was already leading Samson to the stable.
I followed Wilhelm inside and gratefully accepted the offer of bread and cheese from his second-oldest daughter, Katrey. I was absolutely starved. She hurried to the far corner of the room and began playing with her toddler sister, Sophey.
Wilhelm sat across from me at the table but didn’t eat. “Where did you get that horse?”
“Your friend, Schmidt. He’s on our side too.”
Wilhelm nodded and stared down at his hands, which were clenched together. “If we do this and succeed, none of us will be safe.”
“I know. But if we don’t, the people we care about will be dead.” I didn’t like to say it out loud, didn’t even want to think about Grant burning on a stake out in the square, but it was the truth.
After a long, strained moment of silence stretched between us, I was sure Wilhelm was going to say no, but then he finally sighed. “All right. Stay here with the boys and keep out of sight. I will go see who among my neighbors might be willing to help us.”
THE HALF dozen men who gathered around Wilhelm’s table late that afternoon all wore an identical expression on their faces, one I’d come to recognize easily since landing in medieval Germany. Fear. They glanced around, not quite making eye contact with anyone else. There were no women present. From what little I learned about them, most of the wives and daughters of the men here had already met their fates at the hands of von Schönenberg and Meier. It might even have been some of them who Grant and I saw smoldering in the square on the day we arrived in Trier.
“All of you have lost wives, daughters, sons, mothers, fathers, sisters, or brothers. All accused of witchery or heresy, and all equally innocent. Pieter, they condemned your grandmother, eighty and six years old, of consorting with the devil in the woods behind the Roth farm.”
A man with an Einstein shock of white hair nodded. “She could barely walk and couldn’t see much better. How could she consort with anything?”
Wilhelm set a firm hand on Pieter’s shoulder, then turned to another man. “And you, Ernst. They took your daughter, Greta, and condemned her to the stake.”
Ernst broke, pounding the table with his fists. “She was four! How can one who has only lived for four short years be guilty of evil?” A sob seemed to rip at his chest. “I did nothing. I let them take her and torture her poor little body!”
Wilhelm went to him and braced Ernst with his hands on Ernst’s shoulders. “There was nothing you could do. They had men with weapons. They were prepared for resistance, and you were alone.” He looked at each man in turn. “We are no longer alone, nor will we be unprepared. Those monsters have my women, my Irmla and my girl, Brida. Together we can save them. Together we can make sure no one else in our families will suffer at their hands.”
“How?” Pieter asked. He looked at me. “Who is the stranger you speak so freely before?”
“He is a friend. In fact, he risked his own safety to come here to offer help to save my girls and his friend, who was also taken. He has a horse—the great beast rests in my stable. He could’ve kept going, rode up into the mountains or east to the lands of Spice Road, where the reach of the Church cannot follow. But he didn’t. He came here, and he plans to return to Trier to help me rescue Irmla and Brida, as well as his friend, Grant.”
The men began to look up and exchange softly spoken words. Finally one of them, a man named Berger, stood up and looked at Wilhelm. “Very well. We are with you. What is your plan?”
Chapter Sixteen
HE GOT away.
It was the one thought repeating over and over in my head, even as Gunther squeezed my arm in a grip that threatened to snap my humerus in two. He got away. Ash got away with the book!
Von Schönenberg raged, his face blotched with fury. I sort of hoped he’d stroke out, flatline right there in his white nightdress and face-plant on the floor, but I wasn’t that lucky. Instead he roared orders at servants—several of whom seemed to have appeared out of nowhere when he began shouting—alternately browbeating them and cursing Ash and me. He threatened me with everything from torture to hellfire for daring to enter his home and steal from him, but I remained silent. I was determined not to give him the satisfaction of saying a single word.
“What do you want with the Malleus Maleficarum?” He slapped me, rocking my head on my neck. “What say you, heathen?”
Oh, I had plenty to say to the bony bastard, even with a fat lip. Unfortunately, none of it would help, and all of it would earn me another bust to my chops. I pressed my sore lips together and stayed mum.
Gunther tightened his grip as if skinny me could throw off his ham-sized hand and escape. He was beginning to cut off the circulation to my hand.
It occurred to me that I was in a seriously dangerous situation. Von Schönenberg was not the forgiving type, no matter what the Bible said, and his idea of punishment included things like hot pokers and the rack. I could sort of understand how having your joints pulled apart bit by bit or having your flesh burned with bars of red-hot metal might be useful in eliciting a confession from someone, even if that person was innocent.
Von Schönenberg slapped me again. Great! I was going to have a lovely black eye to go with my fat lip. “Take him to the dungeon and cast him in with the other witches.”
“I’m not a witch!” My resolve not to speak slipped, and the words fell out of my mouth.
“No? Why else would you risk so much to steal the Malleus Maleficarum if not to destroy it and hopefully deter good men of faith from hunting and destroying your devilish ilk?” The grin he flashed at me was as evil as any I’d ever seen in nightmares. “Not that you would’ve succeeded. I’ve committed the words to memory. I am an expert witch hunter and have little need for the instruction given in the book. You have failed, witch!” He looked at Gunther. “Take him away, and send the captain of my guard in. I want the other one found before sundown!”
Gunther grunted—he’d done little else since bursting into von Schönenberg’s room and grabbing me, and I was unconvinced he was capable of complete sentences—and dragged me into the hallway.
I pulled and tugged with all my might, but he hauled me along with no more effort than a gorilla might pull a baby doll. I almost expected him to start bashing me against the walls just to entertain himself.
His fingers were like iron clamps and dug painfully into the flesh of my upper arm. They’d leave marks too. I was going to be one big, swollen purple blotch by the time they wer
e done with me. That is, if I was still alive and not boiled in oil or burned into cinders at the stake.
I tripped and fell to one knee. Gunther tugged me up without losing a step, nearly pulling my arm out of its socket in the process. Oh, Ash, I hope you have a plan to get me the hell out of here before they start kicking the tires and lighting the fires.
Gunther dragged me down a flight of stairs to the first floor, then through a pantry to another stairway. This one was even darker and more narrow than the first set, lit by candles burning in wall sconces. The flickering yellow light did nothing to help the foreboding atmosphere. It looked like the set of an old black-and-white horror movie.
Since it was built below ground level, the temperature in the manor’s basement was noticeably colder. The walls and floor were rough-hewn stone and wet with condensation. The air reeked of feces and mold, so much so that I gagged. I’d grown almost used to the stench up in the streets, but it seemed concentrated down here, more potent. I could practically taste it.
The stair emptied into a hallway, which branched left and right. Gunther led me down the right side. The hallway was so narrow Gunther’s wide shoulders nearly brushed both sides of it. We passed several doors, before Gunther paused in front of one at the end of the hall on the left. He produced a key ring from his pocket and, with amazing dexterity for having such thick, sausage-like fingers, selected one key and fit it into the lock. The door swung open, and he hauled me through it.
I’d expected to find a room of some sort on the other side of the door, but instead found myself being lugged through another hallway. This one was just as narrow but stank even worse and was colder and damper than the first one. Moisture ran down the stone walls in tiny rivulets and dripped from the ceiling. I had the feeling we were no longer under the house, but in a chamber built in the ground under the gardens.
There were only two rooms here, one on either side of the hallway, but they stretched for almost its entire length. Moans and pleas for mercy rang out as Gunther strode along the hall, dragging me with him. Iron bars, as thick as my wrist and rusted to the color of old blood, kept those poor, miserable souls from escaping the dungeon and their fate.
A single guard sat at a simple wooden table set at the far end of the hall. He jumped up when Gunther approached and fumbled with a key ring of his own. When he found the key he was looking for, he unlocked a bolted door on the right. It swung open with the creak of metal rubbing metal, and Gunther pushed me inside.
I tripped and fell, skinning my hands and knees on the scummy stone floor. I heard the door slam shut behind me with a metallic clang and looked over my shoulder in time to see the guard throw the bolt and lock it. Gunther was already heading back down the hallway. I guess his work here was done. I didn’t blame him for hurrying out. I’d want to be out of here as soon as I could too. It made me wonder what the guard did to draw duty down here in the bowels of hell.
The cell was lit only by the weak light of a candle in a wall sconce outside in the hallway. The reach of the light didn’t even make it all the way to the back of the cell, but I could sense figures huddled on the cold stone floor.
After I managed to gain my feet, I tucked my hands under my armpits to warm my fingers. There was no light in here, no source of heat I could see or feel, no water, and no bathroom facilities—not even a bucket. It was cold, damp, and smelled like the sewer it was.
“Grant? Is that you?”
The voice was familiar, although raspy and raw. I turned around, squinting in the near dark. “Brida?”
“Yes. Why are you here? Have you been accused too?”
“Yeah.” I made my way toward the sound of her voice, careful not to trip over anyone who sat or lay on the floor. I stepped over a man who lay so still I was afraid he might be dead until he moaned and rolled to one side. “Are you okay? Where’s your mother?”
Brida stepped up to meet me. She looked terrible—she’d been locked up for only a couple of days but looked as though she’d been in prison for weeks. Dirt streaked her face, doing nothing to hide the bruises that bloomed on both her cheeks. Her hair was tangled, knotted with bits of leaves and sticks. Even her clothing was stained and torn. “She is over there, by the wall. She’s sick.”
“Sick?”
“Yes. When we first arrived here, there was a woman who coughed and coughed, all night long. Mother tried to help her, but without her herbs there was little she could do. By dawn the woman was dead, and Mother grew sick. I fear for her, Grant.”
Even in the gloom, I could see tears glistening in Brida’s eyes. “I’m sorry, Brida.” She leaned against me, and I hugged her and patted her back, feeling helpless. Poor girl—I couldn’t imagine what she must’ve been put through the past couple of days. “Ash made it out. He’s gone for help. He’ll get us out of here, you’ll see. Everything is going to be fine.”
I don’t think I ever wished more for something to be true than I did right then.
Ash, come through for us. Get us the hell out of here.
Brida pulled away from me and brushed a dirty sleeve over her eyes. “Mother is this way.”
She led me across the cell to a spot along the wall. It was at the very edge of where the light of the candle reached, and I could barely make out the shape of a woman who lay there, huddled and shivering. “Mother? Look who’s come. It’s Grant—remember him? He and his friend, Ash, spent the night in our barn just before….” Her voice trailed off, and I realized she meant before she and her mother were accused of witchcraft and arrested.
I was no doctor, but even in the dim light I could see Irmla was in bad shape. Shudders shook her, and she coughed weakly, as if she barely had the strength to make noise. When I crouched down next to her, I could feel the heat of a high fever radiating off her body. Whatever illness this was, it worked fast to make Irmla so sick so quickly. Although, I reminded myself, who knew if she caught it from the woman who died? Maybe Irmla was getting sick all along. After all, she tended lots of sick people all the time—her work with herbs was what had gotten her accused of witchcraft. “Mrs. Bauer, it’s Grant. Ash went for help. We’re going to get out of this, I swear it.”
Irmla gave no indication she recognized me. In fact, I couldn’t even tell if she knew I was there at all. She just lay with her head resting on her arm, hacked feeble coughs, and shook. I took off my jacket and covered her, knowing it wouldn’t do much at all but feeling a little better for at least trying to make her a bit more comfortable. She’d be slightly warmer at any rate.
I took a moment to try to look around, take stock of who was in the cell with us, but it was too dark to see much. There seemed to be mostly women, although I saw at least one man and two small people I thought might be children. There were more shapes I couldn’t quite see, shielded by deeper shadows at the back of the room.
Brida sat next to her mother, and I took a spot near her. “Who are all these people? Have they all been accused of witchcraft?”
“Yes.”
“Even the kids? The children?”
“Yes.” Brida gestured vaguely toward the far side of the room. “Greta is the youngest. She is five years.”
“Come on.” I knew my voice was heavy with disbelief, but whose wouldn’t be? Five years old and accused of witchcraft? Locked up in a filthy prison cell? Von Schönenberg and Meier must be crazy to think a little kid could be evil, and everyone else in Trier must be just as nuts to let them get away with doing it.
Another thought hit me, one foul enough to make me sick to my stomach. Did they torture the kids too? I suddenly wanted to break out of prison just so I could get my hands on von Schönenberg and Meier and rip them both apart. Slowly. One limb at a time.
“Grant?”
I blinked and looked at Brida. I’d been so caught up in my fantasy of revenge that I hadn’t heard her. “Huh?”
“I asked if you really thought your friend, Ash, will be able to help us.”
“Oh. Yes. I think so. At least, I
hope so. I know he’ll do everything he can.”
She fell silent for a moment. “Tomorrow we will be questioned. If we do not confess, then….” Her voice trailed off, but she didn’t need to finish her sentence. I already knew what would happen.
If we didn’t confess to being witches, we’d be tortured until we did. And once we confessed, we’d be executed.
The ghost of the smell of roasted flesh we’d encountered when Ash and I first came to Trier assaulted me, as powerful as it’d been even though this time, it was only in my mind. I think it’s probably the sort of smell you never forget, not ever. I’d remember it until I was an old man in a nursing home, sucking down Jell-O and wobbling around with a walker.
Providing I lived past the next few days and found my way back home, that is. I swallowed hard, hugged my knees to my chest, and tried to ignore the chill seeping into my bones. I’d never sleep. I knew that already. It was going to be a long, long night.
Hurry up, Ash. Come get me the hell out of here.
Chapter Seventeen
WE DIDN’T have much of a plan. I hadn’t thought much beyond “get Wilhelm and his neighbors and go back to Trier to save Grant, Brida, and Irmla.” How, exactly, we were supposed to accomplish the saving part was a bit unclear.
As in, I had no freaking clue how we were supposed to do it.
All I had was a cartload of farmers armed with axes and pitchforks. We had no guns, no cannons, not even a sword or a large knife, while on the other hand, Meier’s men, the ones guarding the manor and the dungeon, would no doubt be heavily armed. I had no illusions about whether the men would use their weapons either. Given the opportunity, they’d cut through us like a scythe through tall grass.
I rode Samson next to the open cart. The cart was rough-built, barely more than stripped logs lashed together and mounted on large wooden wheels. It belonged to one of Wilhelm’s neighbors but was pulled by Meier’s team of oxen.
